Summer Beach: Coral Cottage

by Jan Moran

  “You’ll be fine there. Two women, who are very much alive, run it now.” The chief glanced at her car and added, “You can follow me there.”

  She started to say something snarky about his making sure she was actually going there and not staying behind to rob Ginger’s house, but she held back her comment. This wasn’t the big city. Life was different here in Summer Beach. Even celebrities, such as the popular singer Carol Reston who had an estate on the ridgetop, could stroll around without being bothered.

  “That would be nice, thanks,” Marina said. She tested her foot again, but as soon as she put pressure on it, pain shot through her ankle. Reluctantly, she asked, “Could you help me to the car?” She wasn’t accustomed to relying on people—especially strangers.

  “You should have that ankle looked at tomorrow,” Chief Clarkson said, frowning at the swelling. “The sisters who run the Seabreeze Inn—Ivy and Shelly—can probably arrange a doctor for you tomorrow.” He jerked his chin toward her small vehicle. “Hope that car is an automatic. I’m afraid your clutch foot is out of commission.”

  “It is.” Marina managed a polite chuckle. She’d carted kids and gear to matches around the bay area in an SUV, but after they left for college, she’d downsized to a turquoise Mini Cooper with a convertible. She could squeeze into the smallest parking space in the city and drop the top on sunny days. Besides, it was fun. Heather had been trying to get her to affix eyelashes over the headlights. When it’s yours, you can do that, she’d told her.

  The police chief helped Marina to her car, and she followed him a short distance to the inn. He waved her around to the rear of the grand old house and got out. Marina stayed in her car and rolled down her window. Overhead, palm trees rustled in the wind.

  The chief pressed a yellow doorbell button that had a cheerful, painted bumblebee above it. A hand-painted sign read, Give us a buzz after hours.

  Instantly, a light flicked on above them in what Marina imagined was a bedroom. A couple of minutes later, an attractive woman with shoulder-length brown hair opened the door. They had probably woken her. “Hi, Chief. What’s going on?”

  Leaning over the steering wheel, Marina stared at the woman. She seemed vaguely familiar.

  Chief Clarkson jerked a finger over his shoulder. “We’ve got a local’s granddaughter who needs a room. Ginger Delavie is away on a cruise. And this one has a bad ankle.”

  “We have room in the back on the downstairs level,” came the reply. The woman motioned past an enormous pool with statues and columns that looked like it belonged at the Hearst Castle.

  Marina leaned out the window and waved a credit card. “I’ll take it.” She was mentally and physically exhausted. Right now, she could sleep anywhere.

  Chief Clarkson helped Marina from her vehicle, supporting her as she half-hopped, half-walked through tropical gardens to the room. Lush pink bougainvillea, fragrant pikake blossoms, and glossy green ferns made her feel like she was in a Hawaiian resort.

  This was the respite she needed.

  The woman hurried ahead and unlocked the door. Turning around, she gave Marina a sympathetic smile.

  “I’m Ivy Bay. If there’s anything you need, let me know.” She fished a card from her pocket. “This is my cell number so you can text or call. In the morning, let me know when you’d like breakfast, and we’ll bring it out to you. And I’ll bring some ice for that ankle. You might want to elevate it, too.”

  “Good idea,” Marina said. “I’m so grateful that you opened for me.” Ivy Bay. Her name seemed so familiar.

  “Do you have any bags I can bring in for you?” Ivy asked.

  Marina groaned. “I took off from San Francisco with nothing but my purse because I knew I had things at my grandmother’s house.”

  Ginger always had well-stocked guest rooms for Marina and her sisters. Sundresses, swimsuits, flip-flops, and hats. That was all she needed in Summer Beach. Marina figured she could buy anything else.

  After Chief Clarkson left and Ivy had dropped off a bag of ice, Marina peeled off her clothes and hobbled into the bathroom to ice her ankle. Keeping her foot elevated, she took a long soak in the tub with a lavender sachet she’d found in an amenity basket. Closing her eyes, she listened to the soothing roar of the ocean.

  After Marina got out of the tub, she slipped on a soft terry-cloth robe she found in the closet, and then she snuggled under the down-filled duvet. Picking up the remote, she flicked on the television to a late-night show she enjoyed but hardly ever had a chance to watch. She was feeling marginally better now.

  However, that progress was short-lived.

  The show host was performing his opening monologue. “And now, today’s most embarrassing moment goes to a news anchor in San Francisco who found out her boyfriend had just gotten engaged to Lulu Godiva—on the morning news. You’re going to love her reaction.”

  Marina watched in horror as the host played the news clip, which ended with her falling out of her chair.

  “Whoops, there she goes, folks!” The host and the television audience burst out laughing. “Not winning any awards for grace under pressure, is she?”

  Listening to their derisive howls, Marina felt like she was going to be physically ill. She’d had enough emotional battering for one day. Clicking off the television, she pulled a pillow over her head.

  How was she ever going to live this down and reclaim her life?

  Chapter 2

  The next morning, Marina had just dressed in her wrinkled outfit from yesterday when she heard a tap on the door. When she opened the door, she found a pink canvas beach bag with a note attached.

  For Marina. From Ivy, Shelly, and Poppy at the Seabreeze Inn. Call us for breakfast delivery or join us in the dining room.

  A freshly laundered, cornflower-blue cotton sundress, matching flip flops, and a white sun visor peeked from the bag. And leaning next to the doorway was a pair of crutches.

  “How thoughtful,” Marina said, pressing her hand against her heart. This kindness went a long way toward restoring her faith in humanity after the dreadful events of yesterday.

  Immediately, she removed her city clothes, grateful to have a fresh change of clothing. She pulled her shoulder-length hair into a ponytail. Sitting on the edge of the bed, she slid her feet into the flip-flops, pondering her next move. Literally. Her ankle was swollen and tender to the touch. And it was a lovely shade of purple.

  She mused over her choices. She could cloister herself in her room and cry until her grandmother returned. Or she could drag herself to the beach and hide under a sun visor and dark sunglasses.

  Finally, she could brave the new world order and present her newly single, damaged self to other guests in the dining room.

  Option A sounded pretty appealing. She kicked off the flip-flops and flopped back onto the bed, where a dull, throbbing headache greeted her.

  Marina groaned. She knew what that meant. As a morning news anchor, she’d become addicted to coffee. Not just any coffee, but dark, blast-awake brews that snapped her to attention. Without it, withdrawal headaches set in fairly quickly. That was the last thing she needed now.

  Throttling herself into action, she stretched for the wayward flip-flops, hopped across the floor, and opened the door again. Testing the crutches, she positioned them under her arms and swung herself forward in an awkward movement. Fortunately, the last person who’d used these was as short as she was.

  Above her, a dog barked, a door slammed, and footsteps clomped down the stairs.

  A male voice called out. “Need some help?”

  “I need a new ankle.” She raised her swollen foot.

  A man about her age with a thick head of messy morning hair and a wrinkled T-shirt came into view. “Ouch. Sprained or broken?”

  “How would I know? I’m not a doctor.” This guy was a little too happy at this hour of the morning. She winced. Her headache had just passed from the dull phase to the pounding stage. She’d slept later than usual, and now she rea
lly needed that jolt of java.

  He stared at her in amusement, his blue eyes a little too bright for the morning. “You got me there. Need a hand with anything?”

  “Nope. I got this.” She couldn’t quite place his accent, which was an odd combination of a soft drawl and clipped words as if he’d lived in different areas. An urban-rural combination, she decided, what some would call citified. Working in broadcast news, she noticed these subtle things. Gritting her teeth, she set off again.

  “The name’s Jack,” he said. “Heard you arrive last night and saw the police. Were you in an accident?”

  Did emotional wreckage count? Measuring the distance ahead, she grimaced. “Okay, Jack. Would you open that door for me?” And please stop chattering.

  She navigated the ramp to the house, thankful for the access.

  Standing with the door open and a grin that reached eyes too blue to be trusted, Jack looked at her that way people have when they’re trying to place you. New viewers often recognized her, but if she were off the screen and in different clothes, it was more difficult. “You seem awfully familiar. Have you spent much time in New York or Chicago?”

  “Nope. San Francisco.”

  Jack shook his head. “That’s not it.”

  “I can’t imagine.” With misery, it registered with Marina that he might have also seen that television clip on the late show. She maneuvered through the door.

  “It will come to me,” he said, following her inside. “Where do you want to go?”

  Why on earth did he care? “I need coffee.”

  “The dining room is this way. Or you could go to Java Beach, that’s where all the locals hang out.”

  “Not likely this morning, Jack,” she said, indicating her swollen ankle. “But you should go.”

  “Might do that,” he said with the same unflappable smile.

  Jack sauntered through the wide hall, and Marina swung along behind him. She turned her attention to the stately old beach house, admiring the high ceilings and vintage chandeliers.

  Her ankle was throbbing, and she knew her arms and shoulder would also be sore after this. She’d once sustained an excruciating sprain in high school in Claremont, a small university town on the outskirts of sprawling Los Angeles. She’d been on the gymnastics team, and she’d come down hard after losing her balance on the beam.

  “Here you are.” Jack paused at the entry to a grand dining room. “And good luck with that injury. Hope to see you around.”

  In the wainscoted dining room that included a vintage beach mural in fresh shades of blue and turquoise, the woman Marina had met last night waved to her and hurried toward her. Ivy Bay. Why did that name seem so familiar? She was about the same height as Marina, with bright green eyes. And she looked—happy. Marina glanced around. Everyone seemed in good spirits. Crestfallen, she realized she was the only one who wasn’t, even though she certainly had good reason.

  “Good morning,” Ivy said pleasantly. “Glad you joined us for breakfast, but we could have brought a tray to you.”

  “I needed to get out,” Marina said. “And thank you for your care package. You’re Ivy, right?”

  “That’s right.” She pulled out a chair for Marina. “My sister Shelly and I run the inn, along with our niece, Poppy. Shelly is in charge of yoga classes and the grounds, while I’m on indoor duty, art classes, and morning beach walks.”

  “Count me out of all activities for now,” Marina said, easing into a marine-blue, slipcovered chair.

  “I’ll put those by the chair for you,” Ivy said, taking the crutches. “Right here, so you can still reach them. Would you like some coffee?”

  “You’re an angel. I’d love that.” Glancing around her surroundings, Marina noted more details—a habit from her years in journalism. Vintage crystal chandeliers, a richly veined marble fireplace, wooden parquet floors, and fine European antiques. Contemporary paintings of the ocean and beach graced the walls.

  When Ivy returned, Marina asked, “Are any of these your paintings?”

  “The seascapes are mine, and I’ve hung a few others around the house.” Ivy slid a tray onto the table. “I brought blueberry and cranberry muffins, yogurt, and strawberries. I can make eggs any way you want, and we have steel-cut oatmeal, too.”

  “These muffins look delicious.” Marina sipped her coveted coffee, and then she broke off a piece of the cranberry muffin. Heavenly. The muffin burst with fruit, and it was topped with cinnamon crumbles, dusted with sparkling sugar crystals, and baked to perfection. Someone knew what they were doing in the kitchen. Yesterday, she had stopped only once on the way for greasy fast food, which tasted of rancid oil, so she hadn’t finished it. Now, she was starving.

  “We get our baked goods from Java Beach,” Ivy said. “Mitch has the best coffee and bakery in Summer Beach.”

  “Sounds like a popular place.” That’s where Jack was going. Marina cupped her hands around the generous mug and sipped her coffee. Glancing down at her dress, she said, “I’ll buy some clothes in town and return this outfit to you.”

  “It’s yours if you want it,” Ivy said. “People leave all sorts of things here—including crutches. Some of our international guests buy new clothes on vacation, and since they have luggage weight limits, they leave what they no longer want here. We collect clothing for a shelter in San Diego.”

  “I appreciate it,” Marina said. “And this is such a beautiful old home. When I was younger, we used to call this the haunted mansion, but I don’t know if that was true or we were just trying to scare ourselves. I’m curious if you have ever seen any.”

  “Not really.” Ivy laughed a little, though her eyes darted to one side.

  Uh-huh. Definitely haunted. Marina had interviewed enough people to know how to read body language.

  Behind her, a slender woman in yoga clothes with a messy top knot paused. “Did someone see another ghost?” she asked.

  “Absolutely not,” Ivy said, slicing the air with a hand. “Marina, this is my trouble-making sister, Shelly.”

  “If it’s any consolation, it’s a friendly ghost,” Shelly said, making a face at Ivy. “I think it’s the former owner checking in. My sister refuses to acknowledge that Amelia Erickson is still in residence here at her beloved Las Brisas del Mar. We changed the name, but I don’t think Amelia minds.”

  When Ivy rolled her eyes in a good-natured manner, Marina immediately picked up on the sisterly bond.

  Glancing at the crutches and Marina’s ankle, Shelly’s face softened with empathy. “You must be the one who came in late last night. Have you had anyone look at your injury?”

  Marina shook her head. “I should probably go to an urgent care facility.”

  “We know a doctor who can drop by to look at it,” Shelly said. “He’s tended to other guests. We can call and see if he’s available this morning.”

  Marina agreed. She studied the two women, who both seemed friendly and at ease. Marina wondered if living in Summer Beach had that effect on everyone.

  “I’ll put in a call for Dr. Russ,” Shelly said, excusing herself.

  Idly, Marina wondered what it would be like to have a business at the beach like this. Not that she could afford that with the twins’ college tuition. Even though Marina had earned a good salary, the cost of living in San Francisco and taking care of those she loved always stretched her budget. She figured she had about six months of savings to see her through, so she’d have to call her agent immediately.

  Marina remembered other calls she had to make. “I left without a cell phone charger. Silly, I know. I’ll have to buy one right away, but do you have one I can use to charge my phone now?”

  “We have a box of extra chargers. Poppy can take care of that for you.” Ivy waved to a lanky young woman with long blond hair, who crossed to the table. Ivy introduced her and added, “Would you find a charger that will work with her phone?”

  “Sure,” Poppy said. “Mind if I take it?”

  “Not at all,
thanks.”

  After Poppy left, Ivy leaned forward with interest. “You said you remember this house. Are you from Summer Beach? You look so familiar.”

  Marina smiled despite a fleeting thought about the late-night show. “My grandmother, Ginger Delavie, lives here. My sisters and I used to spend our summer vacations at her beach cottage.”

  Marina hesitated, recalling that last blissful summer vacation at Ginger’s cottage, when she had practically lived on the beach, and her parents were still as much in love as they’d been in high school.

  Before the accident.

  During her first year at college, Marina’s plans came to an abrupt halt when a freak traffic accident claimed the lives of her youthful parents. Ginger moved in to look after the younger sisters and encouraged Marina to return to school. Marina studied during the day and worked evenings in a cafe, where she met Stan. After they married, Ginger returned to Summer Beach with Brooke and Kai. Marina and Brooke were only two years apart, but Kai had been the surprise. At seven years younger than Brooke, she had always been the carefree sprite of the family. Their parents had so loved the water that it inspired all their names.

  “Did you ever surf?” Ivy asked, resting her chin in her hand.

  “As often as I could.” Marina snapped her fingers. “Of course. We surfed together one summer, didn’t we?”

  “And you made the most incredible s’mores over the fire.” Ivy laughed and patted her plump middle section. “I looked a lot different then.”

  “You had blond hair, right?” As Ivy chuckled and nodded, Marina took another gulp of coffee. “Back then, I think we were all spritzing on Sun In to get blond streaks and slathering on the tanning oil.” That was her last carefree summer before college. “It’s so good to see you again. Have you lived here all these years?”

  “Oh, no. I left to go to school in Boston and stayed. After my husband passed away, I returned.” A wistful smile crossed Ivy’s face. “After he died, I discovered that he’d just emptied our retirement to buy this place. It was complicated, though, and the old grand dame needed a lot of work.”